Children of the Corporate Dog, I’ve finally gotten the hang of tolerance.
After dark, when the windows don’t show how foolish I actually am,
I imagine I detach the neck of a politician & write “No really, I’m American,”
in blood, on the face of a flag that has touched the ground. I want to be
anti-country, practice individualism before I have to know I’m not alone.
I want to replace the walls with mirrors, with several of me walking through
themselves, repetitive as an unlawful legality succeeding an illegal law.
I know I am less American than the world pretends me to actually be.
The ground makes the kind of noise a door makes when opening.
I think it means I am, at best, American here; beneath solid ground.